Cemetery Practice

I'll meet you at the mossy gates
When the moon is high and smooth like a candy cane
Race you to an open grave
And if I lie down you're stuck with the eulogy
Down in the dirt where the suits grow weeds
Flowers won't grow and your bones don't need no skin

Whistle past the tiny flags
Where the soldiers sang and drum through the coffin lids
Scatter through the swampy scrag
Where the old main roads bring streetlights and company
Down in the dirt where the suits grow weeds
Flowers won't grow and your bones don't need no skin